Chapter 26

[Lexi? Do you have time for an update?]

Red, you know very well that I’ve just woken up, and I’ve just finished my meditation time. I’m brushing my teeth at the moment. I’ve got plenty of time. So, go ahead.

[I didn’t want to burst in with information ... Ms Moonflower has placed a call to Mr. Traveller, which is my nom de guerre for my portion of the project. He is taking calls at an office in London, complete with a human secretary that I hired while you were in Wyoming. That is the phone number of the FDNC you gave Ms Moonflower. Mr. Traveller himself works on the Isle of Man. If anyone gets that far into the cover story, they’ll find the FDNC itself is located in Lichtenstein, and Mr. Traveller is ... well, he is traveling.]

[Mr. Traveller returned her call, using a voice that is a baritone version of Sean Connery with a more extreme Scottish accent. In any case, the joint phone call is set up for tomorrow at one p.m. Arizona time. Present will be the four members of the Board of Directors of the Bank of the Nations, Ms Moonflower, and Mr. Traveller. You need not attend. I will gently grill them about their ability to handle our transactions via fax and wired funds through the First Federal Bank of Phoenix (who is their correspondent bank). I will nominate William Clearwater to handle drawing on the FDNC account.]

I spit out the toothpaste and sat on the toilet to do some other, personal, business while I discussed high finance with the mega-computer in the ‘elsewhen.’

[It is up to you to get the roads and electricity started to the Navajo-Intel site. By the way, is there a name for this project yet? I suggest starting on the construction as soon as possible. Perhaps you – or Clearwater – can contact Intel to coordinate with their site prep team, if they have one. I’d think you’ll have to build a factory and perhaps a separate security building. That’s what the newspapers reported during the attempted break in, in September.]

No, Red. I want two factories, close together but in separate buildings, a residence for me, and a security building for the entire compound. And a runway capable of handling a small corporate jet. As to a name, Spirit of the Hunter, Incorporated, will do. We should get that filed in ... I don’t know. Wherever it needs to be filed.

[Oh. The filing will be easy. I hadn’t considered your need to fly in and out. Of course, you’ll have to live SOMEwhere and getting back and forth to Wyoming will be required. Are you planning on a similar arrangement up there?]

Well, the airfield up there will be near the kiln. The expanded kiln site, eventually. But I’ll live elsewhere. Wherever Dark Wolf finds a gopher hole for me – as he described it.

[Excellent ideas, Lexi. May I suggest you plan for the future, and specify an extra-large master bedroom, two guest rooms and an office complex for you – at both sites.]

‘Extra-large master bedroom?’ Do you know something about what’s in store for me, Red?

[I know many things, but they can change. I’m only suggesting things to allow for your future decisions.]

That’s clear as mud, Red. Thanks anyway.

... ...

I was contacted by Chairman Panther Strike about a meeting with the Hopi leaders. We were going to meet with them about 3:00 this afternoon. Wild Mustang was having lunch with his grandson, Painted Rock, who’d been standing guard at the sweat lodge, several weeks ago. The young man was easily six feet tall and he had a shock of jet black hair that he wore pulled back into a knot behind his neck. As I remembered, from seeing him a loincloth, he had a nice six-pack and a well-muscled chest. Today he was in a DU (Diné University) polo shirt, chinos and a pair of well-worn cowboy boots. Without the face paint that he wore at the sweat lodge, he looked almost my age. Not that I was looking-looking, I was just looking.

Anyway, Painted Rock was nice enough to give me a ride to the superstore near the airport. I rode on the back of his motorcycle, which made me hold onto his waist. He didn’t believe in helmets. I must admit, I scooched up ‘til I was up against his back. Did I mention that I could feel his six-pack move as the ‘cycle went around the turns and he shifted his weight? No? Well, I could. Not to mention the muscles in his back I hadn’t noticed before. I said I wouldn’t mention them.

At the store, I went in and bought a large, child-size fireman’s hat, in red plastic. I figured it would be a hit at the Hopi meeting – assuming that RedHat had a sense of humor.

“That’s it?” said Rock. He said I should call him Rock. “I thought that when girls went shopping it was a significant event.”

“Well,” I answered, “I wanted to be properly attired for my meeting with the Hopi Chairman. He’s a firefighter, I hear.”

He took a beat to reply. “You are one strange girl. A sweat lodge with my granddad. A motorcycle ride, holding me extra close – you didn’t think I noticed, huh? Well, I did. Not that I’m complaining. And a kid’s fireman helmet for a meeting with the head man of the Hopi Nation.”

I decided I’d ignore the motorcycle comment. “Yeah, well. You didn’t mention the big white owl.”

He put me in the driver’s seat for the drive back to Wild Mustang’s place. He put his hands over mine to grip the handlebars and slipped his feet under where mine should have been to reach the pedals. It was a very, very close arrangement. I could feel the heat of his upper body through his shirt and my buckskins. Not that I complained, mind you. It was windy on the ‘cycle and the shared body warmth felt good.

“How old are you, Rock?” I asked on the ride back.

“Um ... Not too bad,” he replied, his mouth close to my ear.

I turned my head toward his, making my mouth close to his. “I SAID HOW OLD ARE YOU?” And then turned to face front again.

“Oh. I thought you asked if I was cold.” I could feel his breath on my ear. “And you don’t have to shout ... I’m seventeen, almost eighteen. Finishing my first year at DU. How old are you?”

I extracted my hand from under his. I held up five fingers, then five again, then three.

“Ahem. Eighteen eh?” He laughed. I thought Indians understood sign language. At least they did in some of the movies. I shook my head ‘no,’ and kept quiet for the rest of the ride.

We chugged up to Wild Mustang’s home and found the multi-colored Blazer waiting for us. Panther Strike and Bill Clearwater were rocking on the front porch with the Medicine Man, waiting. I dismounted the ‘cycle and walked over to the SUV. “I hope I’m not late,” I said, and I started to get aboard the truck. The three rockers got up and headed over to join me.

“Nope, you’re early, if anything. But we can head over now,” said Chairman Strike.

We headed down the road at a moderate pace, and got to K-town about 2:40. I clamped the child’s fireman’s hat on my head as we walked toward the Hopi Council building. We followed David Subang’yaoma, the hereditary Tribal Chief of the Hopi, toward the building. He was a short man, about 5’6”, who wore boots, jeans, and a dusty denim jacket. His shoulder-length hair was loose and he had a light complexion. He appeared to be about forty-five.

The Chief turned to wait for us at the door. “Welcome to K-town,” he said. He laughed at my head gear and reached out to tap it with his knuckles. “Another RedHat, I see.”

“I thought I’d wear it to honor the Chairman, Chief.” Red had, as usual, downloaded a full set of files, so I knew who the Chief was. He’d taken the reins of his office just five years ago, on the death of his uncle. The Hopi leadership had passed through a matrilinear line for over four hundred years. “I hope your mother is well,” I said.